


Rabbit Heart

by rezawrites



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abused Draco Malfoy, Battle of Hogwarts, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Gay Draco Malfoy, Heavy Angst, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Second Person, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22162603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rezawrites/pseuds/rezawrites
Summary: Draco's POV throughout his last year at Hogwarts and the aftermath of the Second Wizarding War. All he wants is normalcy with the boy he loves, but life has other plans for him. Will he ever fully come back from what he has been put through? Can he make peace with his past and move on?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 38





	1. World Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Chunks of dialogue in this chapter, and the rest that take place during Draco's school years, are taken verbatim from the books/movies. I do not own this material and am not attempting to plagiarize Rowling by using it. When I was first starting to write this it struck me that it would make for an interesting reading experience to hear the original dialogue from Draco's perspective, and that's all I was shooting for.

None of them fucking understand. They don't know what it's like to have your mind twisted into pieces and put back together, exposing the memories and ideas and dreams that make you who you are. They don't know that the only reason you're even alive after what he saw inside you is because he gave you a job. They think you live for all of this - the notoriety, the rumors, the scars on your arms, the Mark, the watchful eyes and screams that follow you into your dreams at night. They think you love this. 

You imagine that the only one who comes close to knowing what it's like is Harry. Sometimes when you fall apart at night, you fantasize about talking through the whole mess with him. Baring your soul to him the way you wish you could, telling the secrets weighing you down, falling into his embrace instead of the nightmares. 

Go ahead. Laugh. It's pathetic, and you know it. There's no way this will end the way you want it to. He almost killed you. He wants nothing to do with you; he's made that perfectly clear since the first day you met. 

You've carried so much disdain for him over the last five years, and it's enough to make you ball up and sob some days. If he could only know how much you want to just be with him. How when you see his tangled black hair and hazel eyes your heart leaps, then drops again when you notice his lip curling as you pass. How you wish you could call him yours. 

It's too fucking late now. If you had come to terms with this even just last year, you might have had a chance. But now that the Dark Lord has your mind in his hands, you would die the second you acted on your desperation. That's not to say that your master doesn't already know about the whole thing. He knows everything. You're sure that he gets some kind of sadistic pleasure from watching you struggle to keep it hidden. It's just one more way that you're in his chokehold - misstep, and the secret would spread like wildfire. 

You're almost tempted to act on it anyway, and risk the consequences. Maybe if the Dark Lord was really going to kill you, you'd be brave enough to finally kill yourself. It's not even a secret anymore that you want to. The cuts in your skin aren't just from the strange curse Harry threw at you in the bathroom. You've been going deeper ever since the ordeal with the necklace. 

Madame Pomfrey comes in with more dittany and applies it to the cuts on your chest and neck from the curse. You won't let her near your arms; she can never see your Mark. 

"They're healing well," she assures you, but you're spacing out. Days like this you just want to fall asleep and never wake up, and lately, most days have been ones like this. You may as well nap and hope for the best. 

.  
.  
.  
.

You've been out of the hospital wing for two weeks now, and you've barely seen Harry. You don't even have the capacity to care at this point, because you're starting to feel yourself fade away. When you look in the mirror, it takes you a second to realize that you're looking at yourself, that you're still a living, breathing human. That scares the shit out of you. 

Sometimes when you want to feel, you take the dagger from under your pillow and slide it into the side of your arm deep into your skin until the blood runs heavy onto your clothing. Sometimes it works, and the pain wakes you up. You can get up, try to avoid the nagging question of how you're going to accomplish your task. But most of the time, you black out while hacking at your skin, and you can't stop until Blaise comes back to the room and wrestles the knife away from you. On those days, you just let the blood seep into your sheets and pass out asleep where you are. Blaise never asks more from you. 

There are classes you haven't actually gone to once since you got out of hospital care, because that's all you've been doing - sleeping, or lying for hours in a semi-conscious haze. You know that Snape is the only reason you haven't been called up to Dumbledore's office. Thank god, because you could never deal with a conversation with the old man. You really are grateful for Snape and how he's looking out for you. You just wish he would get off your back a little bit. When you talk to him, it's like he's pushing you to admit that you can't go through with this, so he can do it for you and save the day. 

In reality, he's right. You can't do this. Everyone knows that; Snape does, your mother and aunt do, the Dark Lord sure as hell does. He's just playing with you to prove that you're the same coward as your father. All of you know Snape will do it at the last minute, but the game is seeing how long it'll take for you to break down and ask him to. A small part of you wants to prove him wrong, hopes that some last ditch effort will allow you to succeed. The other part knows you're not a killer. 

For a few weeks, you work hard to get the Vanishing Cabinet to work, but once you finish that you fall back into your slump. You hardly eat anything or get out of bed. You can tell that your friends are worried about you, but none of them will ask what's going on. Sometimes it seems like they're afraid of you. Frankly, you're afraid of yourself. There are always voices in your head now, and they are constantly whispering to you. Kill or be killed. Kill or be killed. Can you do it? Can you kill? Or are you a coward too? Now when you black out, you wake up holding your dagger to your throat, or standing on a different floor of the school with no memory of how you got there. 

Filch finds you like this once, blood dripping down your body, standing in the restricted section of the library. He leaves you there with Mrs. Norris and brings back McGonagall, who in turn takes you to the hospital wing. 

"Please tell us what's wrong, Draco," Madame Pomfrey begs you. "We can help." 

No, you can't, you think, and turn away from her in your bed. You won't talk, and you still refuse to let Pomfrey near your arms, so there's nothing they can do for you. They let you out after a few days. 

It's not until the holidays that you make another try at your real task, giving Slughorn a poisoned bottle of mead for Dumbledore's Christmas gift, but that goes terribly wrong too. The damned fool never gave it to Dumbledore, and instead Harry's friend Ron ends up drinking it months later. He almost dies. Too many innocent people are getting hurt because of this. You don't try to go through anyone else again. If you're going to do this at all, you have to do it directly. No more middle men. Just you. 

So you wait. And soon after your seventeenth birthday has passed, when Snape tells you that Dumbledore and Harry have left on a short trip, you know this is your last chance. The summer holiday starts in under a week; it's now or never. You give the signal for the others to gather at Borgin & Burkes and come through the Vanishing Cabinet. Your aunt, Bellatrix, is the last one to step out into the room; she lets out a little shriek of glee when she sees you.

"Draco," she purrs, "you've done so well." You feel yourself involuntarily shrinking away from her, and make an effort to hold as still as possible while she hugs you. 

Your voice is shaking, as is your whole body. "Thank you," you manage. 

It feels like your heart is visibly pounding. The Death Eaters look at you expectantly for direction, and you've never been this terrified or ashamed. Snape had told you where the pair would be returning to, and now it's up to you to lead the group and finish this for good. If you fuck this up, you could be killed or sent to Azkaban with your father. 

Deep inhale. "I need to go up to the Astronomy Tower. Th- Dumbledore will be coming back there. I'll wait, and catch him off guard." 

Shit. You had almost said "they," and now you're desperately hoping that nobody noticed you trip over the sentence. If any of them figured out that Harry was with your target, the Boy Who Lived would be dead pretty fast. Fortunately, everyone seems too amped about the impending murder to pay attention to your fumble. 

"We'll wait at the bottom of the tower with you until it's time," Bellatrix murmurs. You resist gagging as she caresses your shoulder. Too-recent memories start to bubble to the surface along with the bile and all you can do is push them back down with everything you have. It's not the time or place for this. It probably never will be. 

Your breaths get faster and more shallow the longer you stand by the stairs, waiting what feels like hours for the cracking sound of their returning Apparition. When the distinctive noise finally rings out, Bellatrix puts a hand on the small of your back. 

"Go, Draco. Do what you've been chosen for," she whispers. 

Throwing caution to the wind - it's too late to take a different path, now - you bolt up the stairs, leaving the other Death Eaters at the foot. As you run toward the top of the tower, you hear hurried footsteps, and you pray to god it's the sound of Harry hiding himself. Every ounce of your effort is going into shielding the knowledge of his presence from the Dark Lord, but you know you're not prepared to hide it if you actually see the boy. 

Apparently the stars are in your favor tonight, because Harry is nowhere to be seen as you round the last railing and approach Dumbledore. He looks weak, like he has somehow aged terribly since you last saw him, and it makes you stop in your tracks. 

"Good evening, Draco. What brings you here on this fine spring night?" This greeting is far too polite, too calm. Has he been expecting this? You stand completely still, completely mute, wand out but pointing at the floor. This is what you were chosen for, but you already know you can't do it. 

"You are no assassin," the headmaster states. He is not mocking you, simply observing, but for some reason the comment fills you with rage. 

"How do you know what I am?" you explode, raising your wand up to level with his heart. "I've done things that would shock you!" 

"Like cursing Katie Bell to deliver that necklace to me? Like replacing a bottle of mead with a poisoned one? Forgive me, Draco, but I cannot help feeling these actions are so weak that your heart can't have really been in them." 

"He trusts me! I was chosen!" You pull up your sleeve, exposing the Dark Mark to the elderly man. Scared, angry tears are finding their way into the corners of your eyes. Why are you still talking to him, trying to prove yourself? Why can't you just fucking do what you came here to do? 

"I shall make it easy for you." He spreads his hands, showing a clear surrender. It's like he's reading your mind. Without a second thought, you cast a disarming spell on him and his wand goes flying. The stairs far below creak with the pressure of many moving bodies, brought on by the sound of action, and it is only now that Dumbledore looks at all surprised. 

"There are others? How?" he asks. 

"The Vanishing Cabinet in the Room of Requirement," you mutter, wand hand trembling. "I've been mending it. It's got a twin in Borgin and Burkes. They form a passage." 

"Genius," Dumbledore whispers, looking impressed. But the creaking steps are advancing, and there is little time left. Both of you seem to know this. "Draco. Years ago, I knew a boy who made all the wrong choices. Please let me help you." 

"I don't want your help!" You choke on the words, but there truly is nothing he can do for you. "Don't you understand? I have to do this. I have to kill you, or he'll kill me." 

There are tears running down your cheeks now, held back by nothing. The group of Death Eaters you brought here come up behind you, led by Bellatrix. 

"Well, what do we have here?" she murmurs. She slips her arms around your waist and softly kisses your neck. Your stomach lurches. "Well done, Draco." 

"Good evening, Bellatrix," Dumbledore calls to her. "I think introductions are in order, don't you?" 

"I'd love to, Albus, but we're running on a bit of a tight schedule," she sneers, releasing you from her grasp to circle around you and the headmaster. 

"Now do it!" she cries, whirling back toward you. You raise your wand ever so slightly higher, tremors coursing throughout your entire body. 

"Doesn't have the stomach. Just like his father," someone else jeers. It sounds like Yaxley. "Let me finish him off myself." 

"No!" Bellatrix shrieks. "The Dark Lord was clear the boy is to do it!" 

She places her hand over your wrist. "This is your moment. Do it." 

When you still do nothing, her fingers close tightly around your wrist, nails cutting into the skin. "Go on, Draco! Now!" she wails. Her bloodlust makes you sick. 

You finally point your wand at Dumbledore. You're shaking so badly that you cannot aim. You remember the words, but they refuse to roll off your tongue. Just before you open your mouth, Professor Snape walks forward. Has he been here the whole time? You have no idea. 

The headmaster's eyes shine with unshed tears. "Severus. Please." 

There is a heavy pause. The moonrise sends a pale glow into the room, illuminating Dumbledore's thin, silver hair and long robes. A quiet, gentle breeze hums through the tower. Somewhere on the grounds outside, a few birds chirp in a late-night conversation. Time slows down as you take all this in. It is lovely. When you grieve over your headmaster later, it is this memory that you will call to mind. 

Snape steps in front of you and whips out his wand. 

"Avada Kedavra," he intonates. You're surprised by how musical the words sound when spoken out loud. You watch, numb, as the green flash knocks Dumbledore's frail form backwards. The old man stumbles once, twice, his face contorting into something gruesomely peaceful, and he falls out through the window behind him. You hear it when the already lifeless body hits the ground below the tower. 

You cannot move. Everything is a blur now. Bellatrix is screaming with joy and dragging you toward the window to look down, but you look up instead, and you start crying harder because someone has cast the Dark Mark over the school. Its gaping maw threatens to swallow everything you know. 

Bella turns to run back down the stairs, using her fast, greedy magic to smash things and light them on fire as she makes the trip. You follow her - what else is there to do? All the way across the grounds you run with her and the other Death Eaters, helplessly watching your school burning in their wake. You finally make it to the border of Hogwarts' property and Apparate back to your house. Several of the people you brought through the cabinet are missing, and you think Snape has fallen behind in a duel with someone, but there is no time to think of anyone but yourself right now. Even Harry is gone from your thoughts. There is only fire and a crippling grief that you almost certainly do not deserve to feel.


	2. Icarus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer again that there are chunks of dialogue taken directly from the books/movies in this chapter. I don't own that dialogue and am in no way trying to claim I do, or profit from it.

"Crucio!" 

Unable to deflect the curse in time, you slump to the floor, twitching and crying softly. Your aunt leans over you and smirks. 

"Sweet boy," she whispers, trailing a finger down your chest, "you really must try a little harder in these lessons of ours. How do you expect to pass the Dark Lord's expectations if you won't put just a teeny, tiny bit of effort into your training?" 

She rises. "Again." 

Sadistic fucking bitch. You push yourself to your feet for the thousandth time this summer and adopt a defensive stance, keeping your wand steadily pointed forward. Bellatrix moves to cast another Cruciatus curse on you, but this time you're angry, and that works in your favor. Your silent curse slices across her belly before she can finish the word, and her mouth drops open. Blood slowly spreads over the front of her dress. 

You're still seeing stars from the endless rounds of torture, but you're not in too much pain to lash out a little more. "How's that for fucking effort? Guess I'll do alright after all." 

She stares down at her stomach, doing nothing to stop the bleeding, and looks back up at you with a wide grin. "Feisty suits you, Draco," she purrs. "That's enough for today. Let Auntie rest." 

Either she's learning better self-control, or your anger is exactly what she wants. You're not fond of the latter idea, yet you somehow doubt the former is even a possibility. Avoiding eye contact, you cast Scourgify on your own clothing to get rid of the vomit and blood stains. You begin to limp out of the room.

"No kiss to spare for your Auntie?" she calls out before you leave. 

You pause at the doorway. "Apparently not." You might pay for that later. Right now you just want to lie down and recover before tomorrow's lesson. Hopefully the night passes without … Well, just get to your room before you start thinking too much. 

Sleep comes to you soon after you collapse onto your bed, leaving you with little time to process anything that has been happening lately. But of course your dreams more than make up for that. For hours you toss and turn, stuttering between feverish mumbles and soft wailing, before you finally stir awake a bit past midnight. 

With a frustrated sigh you sit up and throw your legs over the side of your bed, hyper-aware of the sound your feet make hitting the cold wooden floor. You don't want to risk drawing attention to yourself this time of night, not with Merlin-knows-who's staying in the mansion, but you feel like you're suffocating in your room. Just a little air, you think, so you pad gently across the floor and open the door barely wide enough to slip through. 

As you collect your bearings, you're surprised to see a soft light shining from the office down the hall. Its door is half open and you can see the shadows moving before you hear their voices. You know you shouldn’t keep approaching, but you stop just at the threshold and watch numbly. 

"Lucius-"

"Oh, fuck, Rabastan," comes an all-too recognizable voice in reply. 

You turn and silently walk back to your room, getting a little nauseous thinking about how many things you know that would kill your mother if she ever found out. Sleep is a far-off memory now, but you stay holed up anyway, tossing and turning under your linen sheets until well after dawn. 

When you finally do emerge, you find that the morning is quiet and pale, sending an unseasonably weak sunlight through the open kitchen windows. A single china bowl holding some rice and a piece of meat sits on the table - most likely your uneaten portion of dinner left from last night. You know one of the family house elves could take care of it, but you cast Evanesco anyway and put the now-empty dish back into its cupboard before sitting down with a sigh. 

There is no one else in sight, but it doesn’t necessarily mean you have the house to yourself. Almost always someone is asleep in an upstairs bedroom or tormenting one of the prisoners in the dungeon. You miss when you were younger, when your home was not a refugee camp for Azkaban escapees and you could have friends over, or play outside, or read for hours in the library undisturbed. Your childhood was never completely untouched by your parents’ old lifestyle, but your mother had always done her best to keep you sheltered from most of it. Funny how things can change so much in just a few years. 

You are rudely jolted back to reality by the polite whisper of a house elf standing bowed before you. 

“Pardon, young Master Malfoy, but there is to be a meeting at the turn of the hour.” The waifish creature, clothed only in a dirty tunic, keeps its eyes lowered as it speaks. 

“Thank you,” you respond. Exhaustion creeps into your voice, threatening to take you over like ivy snaking up a trellis, but for now you ignore it and stand. “I will dress and be there shortly.” 

The elf bows again and vanishes with a sharp whip-crack sound. With no enthusiasm whatsoever you slink back to your room, change into robes and shoes more suitable for a meeting, and make your way to the ever-dark third story room these events are always held in. The door is ajar when you get there, hushed voices already seeping out. You enter quietly and pull the door shut behind you.

Unsurprisingly, your parents are seated far away from the Dark Lord, meanwhile Bellatrix is the opposite: she perches on the arm of the chair next to him, practically mewling every time he so much as glances at her. Her obvious obsession sends a wave of disgust through you, but at least you’re safe from her while she is distracted by him. You lower yourself into the chair next to your father and avoid looking at anyone else. 

The Dark Lord seems to be getting increasingly impatient with each passing second, flicking his wand toward the ceiling every once in a while with a whine responding from the same direction. You beg yourself not to look up but your curiosity gets the best of you, and your eyes slowly track upwards. You’re confronted with the sight of a woman, bound and bleeding, her tangled hair hanging down as she floats horizontally overhead. Bile starts rising in your throat. Swallow it down, don’t show any pity, your mind urges. All you can do is look back down to the table in front of you. 

Finally the door swings open and Snape enters, cloak swirling behind him. He stops short to bow slightly before the Dark Lord.

“Severus,” your master intonates, “I was beginning to worry you had lost your way. Come, we’ve saved you a seat.” His voice, though still honeyed with its usual misleading sweetness, has a hint of displeasure in it. Snape straightens and takes a seat in the other chair next to him, across from your aunt. 

“You bring news, I trust?” the Dark Lord presses. 

The response is swift. “It will happen Saturday next, at nightfall.” 

A man you vaguely recognize but can’t quite place cuts in. “I have heard differently, my Lord. Dawlish, the Auror, has let slip that the Potter boy will not be moved until the thirtieth of this month.” Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Harry, and you double down harder on your Occlumency, praying it will prove strong enough. 

Snape’s eyes roll nearly imperceptibly. “This is a false trail. The Auror office no longer plays any part in the protection of Harry Potter. Those closest to him believe we have infiltrated the Ministry.” 

Someone else chimes in, “Well, they’ve got that right, haven’t they?” You force a chuckle to fit in with the group’s laughter as you glance down the table at the tall, bearded figure sitting there, who you know to be a high profile Ministry official. He cracks a small smile. 

“What say you, Pius?” the Dark Lord questions him. 

His smile does not falter. “One hears many things, my Lord. Whether the truth is among them is not clear.” 

It is only now that the dark wizard lets out a laugh. “Spoken like a true politician! You will, I think, prove most useful, Pius.” A brief pause, and then: “Where will he be taken, the boy?” 

“To a safehouse,” Snape replies, stone-faced as always. “Most likely the home of someone in the Order. I’m told it’s been given every manner of protection possible. Once he has gotten there, it will be impractical to attack him.” 

For the first time, Bellatrix breaks her gaze from the Dark Lord and clears her throat. “My Lord? I’d like to volunteer myself for this task.” Her chest rises and falls quickly with the thought of it. “I want to kill the boy.” 

Before he can respond, there is a piercing, although somewhat muted, shriek from several floors below.  
The Dark Lord’s eyes flash with rage. 

“Wormtail!” he cries. “Have I not spoken to you about keeping our guests quiet?”

The short, piggish little man at the back of the room cowers away. “Yes, my Lord,” he mutters, scurrying out the door, “right away, my Lord.” All eyes turn now back to Bellatrix. 

“As inspiring as I find your bloodlust, Bellatrix,” the Dark Lord says calmly, “I must be the one to kill Harry Potter.” She instantly shrinks back into her chair, all excitement wiped from her face.

“However,” he continues, standing up and beginning to pace around the table, “I face an unfortunate complication. My wand and Potter’s share the same core. They are, in some ways, twins. We can wound, but not fatally harm one another. If I am to kill him, I must do it with another’s wand.” 

You keep your face expressionless, eyes trained straight ahead, as he trails his hand across the top of your chair. The slightest sign of weakness could betray you when he is so close. 

“Come, surely one of you would like the honor, hm?” 

Nobody dares breathe, let alone speak. You hear his footsteps circle back and stop just next to you. 

“What about you, Lucius?” he murmurs. 

Your father’s voice is almost a whisper when he finally answers. “M-my Lord?” 

“My Lord?” the wizard mocks him. You can’t help but cringe a little at the display of how far your family has fallen from his favor. “I require your wand.” 

There is the hiss of a shaky inhale, and then the metallic sound of the wand being pulled from its sheath. The Dark Lord snatches it and holds it out to inspect it. 

“Do I detect elm?” 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

He snaps the silver handle off of the end, earning a flinch from your father. “And the core … ?”

“D-Dragon heartstring, my Lord,” your father reluctantly replies. 

“Dragon heartstring,” he muses. Even without looking, you can sense every other Death Eater in the room watching intently, either unable or unwilling to look away. The air pulses with the energy of a wordless spell, and a pitiful moan reminds you of the woman levitating above. 

“To those of you who do not know, we are joined tonight by Miss Charity Burbidge, who until recently taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Her speciality was Muggle Studies. It is Miss Burbidge’s belief that Muggles are not so different from us. She would, given her way, have us mate with them. To her, the mixture of magical and Muggle blood is not an abomination, but something to be encouraged.” This information brings on loud jeers and exaggerated gagging noises. 

“S-sev-severus, please,” she begs the professor, voice thick with tears, “we’re friends.” But her plea is met only with a cold, silent gaze. A hush falls on the whole room. You can’t help but wonder how many people Snape has betrayed like this. How many people whose trust he has discarded like garbage. At least one, you think, remembering Dumbledore’s last words. 

“Avada Kedavra!” the Dark Lord cries suddenly, too suddenly for you to process what’s happened before Burbidge’s body falls and crumples onto the table in front of you. Nobody else seems remotely fazed by it, but your heart is beating so fast that you feel light-headed. How many murders do you have to watch, or commit, to become detached from it like that? 

“Nagini … dinner …” he says softly. You can’t look, but the sound of the giant snake rushing toward the corpse and beginning to rip into it is unavoidable. “You may all go. Severus, stay with me. I wish to talk to you.” 

You don’t think you’ve ever stood up quicker, your parents swift to follow suit, and the three of you are the first to leave the room. Not a word is spoken between you. 

.  
.  
.  
.

That night, like so many others lately, rest refuses to come to you. Despite the many warnings your mother has issued to you against leaving the house alone - ever, but especially at night - that is exactly what you find yourself wanting to do after three hours of languishing sleeplessly in your sweat-damp sheets. You pull on pants and a shirt, pick up your wand from its hiding place inside your pillowcase, and fetch your wallet from your end table drawer before casting a silencing spell around yourself. With a quick glance about the room and a final spell to ensure your door is tightly locked, you Disapparate, hoping the silencer muffled the sound enough to avoid attention. 

Nocturnal London is a beautiful thing that you have never seen before. The sky is starless from light pollution, but the billboards and tall buildings shine and twinkle with bright, warm colors that no star could hold a candle to. Another time, you think, you’ll have to bring your broomstick. Rising and soaring through those lights in the cool air would be otherworldly. 

You wander aimlessly for a bit before coming across a rainbow-lit building with a neon sign flashing: Drink! Dance! Party! You’ve snuck into bars with Blaise before, but this one seems … different, somehow. You approach the bouncer at the door. 

He looks you up and down. “Got ID?” 

Even though you could very easily curse him into allowing you inside, you play along. You pull a blank card from your wallet and nearly silently alter it to appear as a Muggle ID card. 

The man says nothing, just opens the door, and you step inside. It smells a bit odd, almost musky, and your eyes take a moment to adjust to the lights, flashing just as bright as the ones on the sign out front. When they do, you notice a distinct lack of women. 

You begin to make your way across the floor of people who are indeed drinking, dancing, and partying, and one of them bumps into you. Or maybe you bump into him. He has dark hair much longer than your own, smooth dark skin with a shine of body glitter and sweat over it. You allow yourself to think that he’s rather attractive.

“Sorry, hon,” he says, then gets a better look at you and smiles. “Want a drink?” 

“Honestly, yes please,” you respond, an excitement in your voice that surprises you. He holds up a finger and disappears into the crowd. You’re beginning to wonder if you just got ditched when he returns with two glasses in hand, one filled with blue liquid and one with clear. 

“I got something fruity and something hard. I like both so you can have your pick.” You hesitate, then take the clear one, knowing that the more alcohol looks like water, the stronger it is. He raises an eyebrow but laughs and lifts the pink glass to his lips, and you drink together. 

Several glasses each later, you’re sharing a chair in the corner of the bar. His hair is tangled around your fingers, and his lips are softly grazing your collarbone, and regardless of your best efforts to suppress them, little whines are making their way out of your throat. You spend what feels like a long time curled against him like this, reveling in not knowing his name. If this is as close to peace as you can get, you can learn to live with that. But 3 AM comes too quickly, and the floor starts to clear out as the bar closes.

Eventually the last of all the vibrant people depart into the city, your handsome acquaintance disappearing too after a final kiss and reassurance that you can get home, and you're left alone outside in a light drizzle with the taste of vodka and peppermint chapstick on your tongue. You stand like this for a while. When you finally do Apparate home, it is almost 5, and you barely make it out of your clothes and into your bed before you are overcome with the swiftest, deepest sleep you've had since you were very small.


End file.
